


Dot Your Ts and Cross Your Is

by CoffeeStars



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Jack Zimmermann (mention), M/M, One Shot, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Prompt Fill, Sappy, Soulmate AU, implied zimbits, soulmate markings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-07-27 16:14:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7625293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeStars/pseuds/CoffeeStars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zimmermann's mark, the first thought his soulmate will have about him, is on his stomach. It is not the first thing Kent thinks when he meets Zimms. </p><p>Kent's own markings are illegible. His soulmate must not think much of him, but it's okay, because Kent doesn't think much of himself, either, as he bandages up his forearm and hides.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> From holdupwethisboy's prompt: "Someone, please write a Patater soulmate AU where your soulmates first thought about you is written on your skin; but, because Tater is from Russian the words on his body are in English and Kent’s, are in Russian. Cue Tater taking the first chance he gets to come to the US and Kent flirting with any foreigner he meets."
> 
> Also posted on Tumblr on nomorelonelydays :)

Kent Parson doesn’t think he has a soulmate at first. Where his mark should have been is a series of squiggles, as if someone had been scratching a laundry list on their forearm but all they could write is a line of Us. As he lays his head on Zimms’ chest, panting and boneless, he jokes that it really is a grocery list he’s scribbled himself, and he had forgotten to wash it off. He spends the rest of the time trying to convince himself that the mark on Zimms’ stomach, the one that says,  _He did NOT just say that to my face,_  in small, flowing letters, is what he thinks when he first meets Zimms. He knows what he had thought when he saw Jack, when Jack shakes his hand and says “Good game” in this shy, yet determined manner, like he’s trying to live up to his name but doesn’t think he’s quite there yet. Kent knows his first thought is,  _He’s amazing_.  

Zimms drops out of the draft, and out of Kent’s life. Kent goes to Vegas and he plays hockey. He does spectacularly. He hates the pitying looks he gets when people stare at his unusual mark, so Kent binds it up with ace bandages. Once a hookup undid his bandages after sex, wanting to know what unfortunate secret the wraps held, and when Kent regained consciousness he kicked the guy out of the hotel room bare-ass naked, throwing his clothes after him.

A year later, he goes to a local coffee shop for lunch and waits for Jeff to join him. He loosens the bandages, because his words suddenly itch something awful, and when the barista comes with his coffee he doesn’t have enough time to rewrap his arm. 

“Oh, cool,” the girl says, eyeing his mark. She doesn’t look more than 17. “Your soulmate’s Russian?”

Kent swallows the frosty “Shouldn’t you mind your own business?” as his irritableness is replaced by curiosity.

“Excuse me?”

“That’s your mark, isn’t it?” she says. “My grandpa’s from Moscow. That’s Russian cursive.”

He feels hope for the first time in a while. Since Zimms, probably.

“Do you know what it says?” he asks hurriedly.   
  
“Oh–I don’t know,” the girl replies apologetically. “I don’t speak it. I just know it because I used to flip through my grandpa’s journal and it looked just like it.”

Kent stutters to a stop and settles back. He looks back at his half-undone bandages and decides to remove it completely.  

* * *

 

Three years after this discovery, countless Google searches for “Russian pick up lines” and “basic Russian phrases,” and thirty or so dates with people bearing vaguely Eastern European last names, Kent is still lacking a soulmate. Plus, not a single person’s he’s flirted with, Russian or otherwise, can read his stupid mark. The good news is that he now knows how to say “nice ass” in Russian; the bad news is, well, everything else.

After their loss against the Providence Falconers (he doesn’t miss the fact that Jack avoids eye contact with him 90% of the time unless absolutely necessary), Kent is ready to get wasted on appletinis and complain his heart out to Jeff. He also ties up his forearm, something he hasn’t done in a long, long time.

“It’s not  _fair_ ,” Kent hiccups. His glass is almost empty, and he feels a cross between sorrow and contempt. “I learned so much Russian, and I still can’t read my own mark. And I think that girl I went out with, Yuliya? I think she was faking her accent. I totally heard her slip when she was ordering.”

“You only know how to tell someone their ass is nice, Parser,” Jeff says, raising an eyebrow. “And you know what they say. If you try to look for your soulmate on purpose, you’ll never find them.”

“The fuck?” Kent lays his head on his arms. “I’ve never heard that ever.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I made it up just now. Don’t worry too much about it, kiddo.” Jeff slides off the stool and adjusts his shirt. “I gotta piss. Wait here and don’t move. I don’t want to make the rookies form another search party for you.”

Kent is too tired to argue.  
  
“Okay,” he says sadly. “I’ll be here.”

He’s running a finger along the rim of his martini glass when he hears a person shuffle back on the stool where Jeff had been.

“Jeff, you peed super fast,” Kent says. “Did you–”

“Not Jeff,” the voice says, deep and amused.

Kent lifts his head off the counter with a start and stares straight at Alexei Mashkov.  _Fuck_ , he thinks.  _He’s hot. And tall. I want to die._ He regrets the action immediately when he’s hit with a sudden bought of wooziness.

“You’re–ow. Everything’s moving around.” Kent swats the air. “Stop it.”

“Parson?” Alexei actually sounds concerned for him, which is funny because this is the same man who literally checked Jeff so hard into the glass Kent thought his skates were going to fly off. “Do you want water?”

“Want to lie down,” Kent whines. Everything in the club is too much: too loud, too small, too stuffy, too crowded, too lonely. “Feel like shit.“

"I will call car, hold on, Kent.” He feels Alexei’s arms under his own, holding him up as they slowly trudge out of the bar.  
  
Kent feels his eyelids growing heavier. Whoever is carrying him out of the club is probably supporting 99% of his weight now, and smells really good.  _I want to go home_ , is his last coherent thought before he registers someone cradling him bridal style and passes out completely. 

* * *

 

When Kent opens his eyes again, he realizes that he’s in his own bedroom, all tucked in but still in his nasty clubbing outfit. Kit is patting her pudgy kitty paws on his forehead and there is someone snoring on his armchair next to his bed. Kent blinks blearily at the alarm clock, which reads 3:21 AM, then turns to the figure in the armchair. He squints.  
  
“Mashkov,” he says, as he switches on the bedside lamp. His mouth is dry. He tries again, slightly louder, “ _Mashkov._ Alexei.”  
  
Alexei stirs and cracks open his eyes. “Kenny?” he mutters.  
  
“Kent,” he corrects without much heat. “What happened? Why are you here?”  
  
“I bring you home,” Alexei murmurs sleepily. “Check your license for home address. Stay in case you vomit.”  
  
“Oh God. Did I?” Kent rubs his eyes, his head is still spinning, but marginally less. “Did I puke?”  
  
Alexei scrunches up his face as if trying to remember, then nods. “Yes. Once.”  
  
“Fuck.” Kent flops back down. “Shit, man, I’m sorry. Thanks for bringing me back. Ugh, I forgot to tell Jeff.”  
  
“It is no problem.” Alexei seems more awake now, and he’s fidgeting. “I want to say good game tonight. That is why I come to you at club.”  
  
“Huh?” The game is so far in the back of his mind at this point, it takes a moment for Kent to recalibrate and process the words. “Oh, the game. Yeah, good game. You nearly gave Jeff a concussion.”  
  
Alexei gives a low, breathy laugh. “I am sorry,” he says, and he sounds sincere. “Was excited to play Aces. You lead great team.”  
  
“Hah. Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself.” Kent sneaks a look at Alexei: his hair is mussed and he looks beyond tired, but there’s something comforting about having Alexei in his armchair at 3 AM on a Thursday. Then again, he is also pretty drunk still, so maybe any tall, handsome stranger in his armchair feels like a good idea. They look at each other for a few minutes, with Kent trying to focus his eyes on Alexei’s face and Alexei looking like he doesn’t know whether to leave the apartment or stay, before Alexei clears his throat.    
  
“My grandmother,” he says. “She still in Russia. She just phone me yesterday. She ask me, ‘Are you playing the boy with cat tomorrow?’ Even she knows about cat.” He gestures to Kit, who jumps from Kent’s head to Alexei’s feet, staring up expectantly.   
  
“Ha,” Kent manages. “Boy with cat. That’s me. That’s funny.” Then a more sober part of his brain clicks. “You’re Russian. Like, a real one. That’s not a fake accent.”   
  
Alexei blinks.   
  
“Yes, I am,” he says, bewildered. “Why would I fake—”   
  
Kent climbs out of bed and nearly topples over. He ignores Alexei’s helping hand and rolls up his left sleeve, clawing at his bandages.   
  
“No, no,  _look_ —God, why won’t it come  _off_ —” The strips finally fall and Kent shoves his arm under Alexei’s nose. “Read it. Please read it. I need to know what this stupid fucking chicken scratch  _says_.”   
  
Alexei reads it, and he says nothing, his expression absolutely blank. Kent watches him scan it again, and again, all in silence.   
  
“Hey, can you read it or— _woah_ , what are you doing?” Kent jumps back as Alexei suddenly stands up, unbuttoning his collar and stripping out of his shirt. Kent lunges forward and grabs Alexei’s arms, trying to pull them downwards. “This is inappropriate—shit, nice abs—but no, I might puke on your dick if you’re trying—oh.”  
  
There, right across Alexei’s ribs, in his own handwriting, is the phrase,  _Fuck_.  _He’s hot. And tall. I want to die._  
  
“Holy fucking shit,” Kent whispers, his one hand still on Alexei’s arm. He can’t quite bring himself to look up at Alexei as he repeats, “Holy fuck. I found you. It’s you.”  
  
“I follow my words to America,” Alexei says softly. “First chance I get, play hockey, I go on plane. I follow them to you.”  
  
“Wha—I—” Everything in Kent’s mind is all jumbled like overcooked eggs. “You—you had that on your body as a kid? Jesus fucking Christ. And my arm—your handwriting  _sucks_ , I have asked thirty different people and  _no one—_ I can’t—”  
  
Alexei presses his forehead to Kent’s, and Kent falls silent, his eyes still wide. Alexei feels like home, which is ridiculous given that he’s officially met the guy for about three hours.   
  
“What do my words say?” Kent says faintly.   
  
And Alexei replies, as if he has been practicing for a long time, wrapping an arm around Kent’s waist to bring them together, finally, “They say,  _My God, he is beautiful._ ”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack and Tater go to the airport to pick up Tater’s soulmate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Patater Week Day 4

“You’re in a good mood today,” Jack comments, as slides in next to Tater in the nook.   
  
“Mhm,” Tater hums and chews his sandwich. “I find soulmate,” he says, like he’s commenting on the weather.  
  
Snowy and Thirdy look up from their breakfast, and Marty nearly snorts out his cereal. Guy pats him on the back a little harder than necessary.   
  
“You found your soulmate, Tater?” Poots asks carefully. “Like, the one who said ‘You’re tall and hot, I want to die,’ _that_ soulmate?”  
  
Almost everyone’s seen that particular marking in the locker room, and though no one actually voiced it, a large majority of the team had covered up their jealousy with chirps. Who doesn’t want a confidence booster like _that_ as a soulmark? Tater simply nods, and Thirdy flies up, excited.

“That’s great, man!” he crows. “Who’s the lucky girl? Did you meet her at a bar? Was it after the game against the Aces?”  
  
“You should bring her around sometime,” Marty comments. “I want to meet the person who has to put up with you and your snoring all the time now.” The table laughs, echoing their assent.  
  
“I’m happy for you,” Jack says, and Tater glows.   
  
“So who is she?” Marty asks.  
  
“Yeah, Tater, is she hot?” Thirdy adds.   
  
“Yeah,” Tater says casually, and takes another huge bite. “He is very hot. He also make this sandwich before I’m leaving.”  
  
The crowd of catcallers fall silent almost immediately. Snowy’s mouth falls open and a toast crumb falls out. Jack’s eyes widen as he stares at Tater’s expression, which has not changed from his previous, besotted look.  
  
“He is not good at making sandwich. Next time I go to kitchen and see how he do it,” Tater admits as he shrugs. “It’s thought that count.”   
  
There’s another awkward moment, but Marty’s already leaning in and taking a huge bite, quick as anything.  
  
“Hey!”  
  
“Chicken salad’s kind of dry,” he comments. “Tell him to use more mayo.”  
  
“Wait, man, no fair, I want to try,” Thirdy complains as he leans his weight on the table towards Tater. “Don’t be stingy.”  
  
“Get your own,” Tater guffaws, then tries to stuff the rest of his sandwich in his mouth and almost chokes. Jack doesn’t think he’s ever seen Snowy laugh this hard before. Or like, at all.   
  
Jack doesn’t know if it’s happy giddiness he’s feeling as he watches the table start teasing Tater good-naturedly, or if he’s lightheaded because he almost has to Heimlich maneuver the dry chicken and bread chunk from Tater’s throat, but he gets a quick flash of introducing Bitty, his own soulmate, to the Falconers. They’d love him to pieces, Jack thinks. Bitty will feed them even _more_ pie, Poots is going to cry.    
  
“What’s his name?” Jack asks, after Tater isn’t in danger of suffocating anymore.  
  
“Kent Parson,” Tater answers. “He is Captain of Las Vegas Aces.” Tater smacks his lips, then adds, “How long does chicken salad keep in fridge? Kenny says a week, but Google say 5 days.”   
  
Initially, Jack thinks his internal screaming is him _actually_ screaming in reality, but then he realizes that it’s just Thirdy and Marty and the rest of the Falconers present roaring their lungs out simultaneously, with Poots in the background going, “ _Tater, you have to get me his autograph you’re my only hope_.” Jack thinks he might’ve heard a “Boo, traitor, Parson sucks” from Snowy, but he’s not really sure of anything anymore.  

* * *

  
Kent doesn’t visit until 6 months after Tater’s announcement, but Tater seems determined to make up for it by talking to Kent on Skype every chance he gets. He goes to Vegas three months before Kent’s visit and returns starry-eyed and insufferably dopey. He also starts talking about Kent to the Falconers.  
  
Whether it’s about the Aces’ most recent win or Kent murdering a new recipe, the Falconers locker room has heard each one at least twice. They’re all happy for Tater (Poots is practically frothing at the mouth when Tater tells him that Kent had agreed to sign his jersey— “Why didn’t you just bring a jersey back?” Poots groans, and Tater just holds up his arms and says apologetically, “I forget! Next time! Maybe.” And all that just ignites another round of chirping). Tater and Kent apparently had taken to each other like an old, decrepit house on fire, in the most sickeningly romantic way possible. Once Tater boasts that he sent flowers to Kent for Valentine’s Day as a surprise, and that Kent had called him so fast Tater had thought Kent had been mad, but he’d really just been crying since the arrangement that’d been delivered was so excessive and it’s absolutely like Tater to go all out.   
  
Tater’s always staring at his phone and smiling at every new message Kent sends, and they seem to talk to each other on Skype every single day. He’s getting worse than Jack, Marty had once commented, and Jack, seeing how ridiculously happy Tater is, cannot bring himself to ask whether Tater knew about Kent and himself. They’ve somewhat made their peace by now; Kent phoned him one night, sounding exhausted, and stammered out an apology. It’d been terse, and while Jack had accepted his apology as sincere, neither of them have ever been good with words. He wonders if Kent is the same as before. He doesn’t forget how Kent had crowded him against the door of his own room in Samwell that night, his eyes decidedly fierce as he spits venom when Jack wrestles him off.   
  
“ _I miss you, okay? I miss you,_ ” Kent had said, his face slack with desperation, then frustration. His grip on Jack’s shirt loosens, and for a moment the hurt cracks through and Kent looks like Kenny from the summer before the draft, with his fingers grasping at a love he never had.   
  
But Tater looks so happy when he’s on the phone with Kent before a game. It’s his new little ritual. Kent always takes the time to make a five-minute phone call, and Tater does it for Kent’s games as well, apparently. Tater sits in the locker room, phone pressed against his ear as he whispers things like, “Thank you. I miss you, too. We bring Kit to Providence next month, too? No? Haha…”   
  
It’s incredible how the same words that had slashed Jack in half can brighten Tater’s entire day. He doesn’t tell Bitty, either, because he hates for Bitty to be anxious for him, even if Jack knows that Bitty will, without a doubt, drop everything and hop on the train to Providence if Jack ever needed him. He wants to tell the world he loves Bitty, so very, very much, and even though he’s comforted by the fact that his teammates won’t react negatively, especially after Tater’s announcement, he wants to keep Bitty’s sleep-tousled hair and smile to himself for just a short while longer.   
  
“How was your day?” he asks Bitty again that night through Skype, as he always does. He says nothing of Kent, only that Tater’s soulmate is a man, and that they seem to be very happy together. Bitty eyes twinkle, but he doesn’t voice what they’re both thinking.  
  
“I love you,” Bitty says, as Jack lets his soulmate’s drawl slow the beats of his thundering heart until his head is quiet again. “So much, sweetheart.”

* * *

They pick up Kent at the airport two months later, after a game that they win (but the latter is just a coincidence). The ‘they’ in question includes Jack, because Tater had pulled him aside before the game and asked if he could accompany him.  
  
“Wouldn’t Poots be more excited to go with you?” Jack said automatically, gripping his stick like a weapon before relaxing. “Not that I don’t…want to…” He doesn’t want to, but he doesn’t want to say no to Tater, either, when all Tater’s been doing the past few months is rave about how wonderful and fantastic his boyfriend is.   
  
“Is surprise,” Tater says conspiratorially. “Tomorrow, team come to my house. We celebrate win, and I bring Kenny.”  
  
“The game hasn’t even started,” Jack says wryly. “You’re going to jinx us.”  
  
“No,” Tater shrugs. “Team win, come over to drink. Team lose, everyone still drink. No jinx. Will be fun.” He nudges Jack with his gloved fist lightly. “Beside, you my rookie. I’m need emotional support. Please.”  
  
Jack’s pretty sure that’s an excuse Tater made up on the spot, but they get ushered out to meet the ice then, and Jack finds that he can’t refuse Tater’s earnest expression.   
  
“Okay,” Jack croaks out.   
  
“Good,” Tater says gratefully. “Kenny so small and funny. Used to be so sad and angry.”  
  
“Did he tell you that?” Jack asks, alarmed. “Is he still—?”  
  
“No,” Tater says, then leaves it at that. 

* * *

  
Tater picks him up from his apartment the next day in the afternoon, and Jack can see that Tater is thrumming with energy the entire ride to the airport. He talks about Kent and their daily Skype calls, and how Kent tried to bring them breakfast in bed but ended up spilling orange juice all over the cat instead. Jack just makes a bunch of noncommittal noises like “Hm” and “Ah” as he casually grips the armrest handle like Tater’s driving isn’t the most terrifying thing he’s ever experienced.   
  
They’re in the lobby now, with Tater craning his neck to see over the other travelers and checking his phone every once in a while. Jack clears his throat. It was now or never.   
  
“Um, Tater?”  
  
“Mm?” Tater’s still looking at the gate expectantly, like if he looked away even for a second, he’ll surely miss Kent.  
  
“How much, uh, do you know about me? Like, I mean, about me before. In the Q?” Jack never talks about it. He didn’t figure he had to, not with the headlines everywhere from back the proclaiming his teenage decline as Bob Zimmermann’s legacy.   
  
“Little bit, here and there,” Tater says absently. “Hear things, but not much. Respect privacy, so…” He shrugs, still absently scanning the crowd.  
  
And it’s sweet to hear, for a change. Jack hadn’t expected that. “But you—Kent and I—did Kent ever tell you—”   
  
“ _See him!”_ Tater exclaims suddenly, and Jack is jolted from his thoughts. “He’s here! He’s—” Jack sees doesn’t see anyone that looks like Kent, but Tater’s already maneuvering Jack’s shoulder so he’s facing him. “Do I look okay? Smell my breath.” Then he actually huffs on Jack like he’s six and Jack’s his mom checking if he brushed his teeth.   
  
Jack laughs, despite his nervousness, and pushes him off. “You’re fine. Get off of me.”  
  
And just like that, Tater bolts ahead, sidestepping the families and tourists until Jack sees that he’s heading for a man dressed in a grey hoodie and headphones. Tater’s waving his arms like a hooligan, and when Kent finally turns in Tater’s direction, even Jack can see that Kent’s mouth is falling open as he rips his earphones out, and the grin is so bright Jack would’ve been able to spy it from a mile away. It’s like a scene ripped from a bad romance flick. Kent picks up his bag and makes a mad dash for Tater, and Tater nearly loses his balance trying to go around some businessman’s luggage.  
  
They slow to a stop about a feet before they actually touch, and Jack sees Kent’s mouth form a very small “Hi.” Kent’s bottom lip is wavering as he schools his composure, but Jack’s well aware that he’s definitely looked at Bitty with that exact same expression many times over.   
  
Tater’s examining Kent like he can’t believe Kent’s corporeal, which is borderline ridiculous because there hasn’t ever been a missed night of Skyping. He breathes, “Kenny—”  
  
And it’s like a trigger is switched. Once Kent hears the nickname, he literally drops his duffel bag and jumps into Tater’s arms like he’s scrambling up a tree. His hoodie flies back as he buries his head in the crook of the taller man’s neck, his legs wound around Tater’s waist. Tater catches him like they’ve been doing it for years, and it’s heartwarming and sickening sweet but they’ve never looked happier. They’re hesitant when Kent bends his head down for a kiss, their noses bumping. Kent giggles, and Tater hardly notices as they fall into the next kiss, a real, proper one, like they’ve been aching for it for ages. When Tater finally lowers Kent, Kent’s expression is so open and laid bare that Jack is taken aback for a second.  
  
It’s love, Jack can see. Pure, unfiltered love. The kind that makes you want to smile beyond the confines of your face. The kind of love that surges over Jack whenever he looks at a text or good luck note from Bitty telling him that he believes in him, and that he is needed.   
  
“I missed you,” he says breathlessly. One of Tater’s slides over to Kent’s forearm, where Kent’s soulmark is, and Kent’s hand hovers over Tater’s ribs reflexively. “Did you—?”  
  
“Yes. Every day,” Tater says as-matter-of-factly, still smiling like a fool as Kent just about melts. After about ten seconds of this, he seems to remember that Jack is now standing behind him awkwardly. “Oh, Kenny, I bring—”  
  
“Zimms,” Kent says. He sounds a little surprised, but not unhappy, either. “I—”  
  
“Hey, Parse,” Jack says.  
  
Kent seems at a loss for words, and he’s shuffling. Tater’s hold on his waist tightens, as he glances at Kent then back at Jack. “I—God, Zimms, I’m…” Kent looks dumbstruck. “It’s so good to see you again,” he finishes.  
  
“It’s been a while,” Jack agrees. “You look happy.”  
  
And Kent beams at as he leans into Tater, who rubs his shoulder with a sure hand. Jack hasn’t seen that gentle, quiet smile on Kent in years.   
  
“Come on,” Kent says softly. “I want to meet the rest of your team properly.”  
  
“You mean off the ice and not where you could get beat up?” Jack chirps automatically. He’s a little surprised at how easy it is to get back into the same rhythm with Kent.    
  
“Yep,” Kent says, not missing a beat. “Unless the Falconers are hitting financial rock bottom and can only afford you and Zimms.”   
  
They’re still a long way from being alright, but without the dread of the draft or a summer with a deadline looming over their heads anymore, they start over, and they take it slow.   
  
So they go.


End file.
